


gave it a name

by janie_tangerine



Series: charity commissions 2018 [7]
Category: Promessi Sposi - Alessandro Manzoni
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Charity Commission, Explicit Sexual Content, I Don't Even Know, Identity Issues, M/M, Priest Kink (PROBABLY???), Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Theology, the author washes her hands off her skills with religious people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 01:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “So what, He’s haunting my dreams so that I can better myself?”“He might be,” Federigo says, “or it might be all you, or both things, but there’s a reason why we have free will. You can choose to be better or not whether you feel Him or not, that’s between the two of you, but in my experience if your conscience is calling, then a part of you wants to alleviate it, not to silence it.”He glances at the clock on the wall. Federigo can see that their time is coming to a close. “I have just one last question for you, then, if you’ll answer it.”“I answered until now, haven’t I?”“Very well.” He breathes in once, twice. “If I had come to ask you these very same questions before now. When I still was —”“The kind of criminal people are too afraid to name?”“Yes. Would you have heard me?”





	gave it a name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dylan_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dylan_m/gifts).



> ... AND, LATE AS HELL, this is the last charity commission I had left for last year's requests. (They're closed now, sorry XD) Now: tldr, I have a _complicated_ relationship with the book in question and I'm atheist so my skills with religion discussing are what they are but... I gave it a shot. XDD Not c/p-ing the prompt because SPOILERS not that anyone actually would care most likely but xD anyway: MAN I HOPE THIS IS SOMEWHAT WHAT YOU WERE HOPING FOR I TRIED MY BEST.
> 
> Also: EVERYTHING IS MANZONI'S except for the modern au translation, it probably shows that there is ONE part of the gospels I genuinely like, the title is from Bruce Springsteen and I'll saunter vaguely downwards in a moment and leave you to it.
> 
> LAST BUT NOT LEAST: *endless* thanks to totemundtabu/robb-greyjoy for the a) advice work when I had to plot this, b) betaing this, c) the support without which I'd have deleted half of this fic twice most likely. Meanwhile, if my middle school italian teacher ever reads this, I just want her to know I was thinking of how much she'd be horrified I actually wrote porn about THIS one book while writing it. ;) okay, I'm really done now. XD

“ _He_ says he wants to talk to you.”

Father Federigo, who on this bright cold day in April day is currently going through his notes for Sunday’s Mass both _here_ and in town while everyone else is having lunch, as the clocks are striking thirteen, and who wasn’t expecting anyone to barge in the little office he’s given whenever he needs the space _here_ as one of the priests assigned to this particular jail, drops the notes on the table along with his glasses — he’s not getting any younger, sadly.

Well, he only needs them to read, at least. He raises his head from the desk to meet the eyes of one of the _other_ priests serving as chaplain — he’s only here three days per week because he has to mind his own parish in town, and Father Abbondio’s usually here on different days but it seems like for once he’s not.

“Brother, would you mind being a bit more specific? I think every single inmate in here is a man and I talked to plenty of them since this morning.”

“Fair, but — uh. _Him_. I mean, _that_ one inmate.”

_That_ —

Oh.

“You mean, _that_ one?”

“Who else?” Father Abbondio shrugs, holding a small book to his chest. “Yes, _that_ one.”

“And why would he want to talk to me when he has an ample choice of people around here? There is —”

“I _know_ who else is here, but after ten minutes of conferring with him, he told me he would rather confer with _you_ because he has heard _things_ about you that make him think _you_ would be a better listener.”

… Now _those_ were not the plans Father Federigo had envisioned for the afternoon.

“And when would he want to do such a thing?”

“Not today because in between myself, his lawyer and a few others, the time he has allotted to talk to people who aren’t the guards is finished. Next time you’re here, I suppose.”

Fair enough. “I will see him next Monday then,” he says. “You can warn the guards, if it’s on your way.”

“It is, it is. Well, good thing you’re willing, because I don’t know what it is he wants with a priest but certainly nothing _I_ can provide.”

Father Abbondio nods at him and leaves grumbling and holding some little book to his chest.

Well then. _Now_ that was unexpected.

The last thing Father Federigo had imagined would be that a criminal so nefarious that people around here barely even say his name — actually, they do _not_ even say it, same as Father Abbondio hadn’t before — would want to talk to _him_.

Admittedly, as far as Father Federigo is aware, the man is more dangerous for his connections than for _actual_ misdeeds — as in, he had been managing the largest money laundering racket in the entire region if not the whole of Northern Italy, and that he had been doing that also in exchange for favors from notable politicians whose name he hasn’t uttered but that certainly would make a few heads fall should he choose to cooperate with the police.

Sure, the way he had been arrested seems somehow out of character for a man who’s pushing his sixties and has been apparently in the criminal business since a very early age — he was brought in for having organized a kidnapping of this young girl from Pescarenico, which was apparently on commission from one of the people _he_ laundered money from. From what Father Federigo has heard, the girl was engaged to this guy who has a prominent position in the textile workers’s union and the man who commissioned the kidnapping owned a few factories and the union had been protesting his management. It was supposedly to scare the fiancé off, except that a week later the girl was released and went to the police and denounced _him_ , and he didn’t resist the arrest, and no one has quite figured out what had exactly happened.

Still, the man’s in solitary, has only a certain amount of time he’s allowed to talk to other people including his lawyer, and given that he was the head of _that_ kind of large crime organization, even the other inmates stay clear of even mentioning him.

And now he wants to talk to _him_ , Father Federigo.

Well, he thinks, there are reasons he went into priesthood and refusing to listen to anyone who might want to hear him is not anything he wants to ever do, so — he will talk to the man on Monday, he supposes.

About _what_ — he’ll find out then, too, if God wills it.

Still, he can’t help feeling surprised by this specific turn of events. But he sincerely believes that God’s ways are infinite and not necessarily understandable to all, no, not even priests, and if this is what He has in store for him, fair enough. He will rise up to the challenge, _if_ there is any challenge to be had in here at all.

——

On Monday, he goes through all the usual bureaucracy that implies talking to people in solitary — the director signing his authorization, guards, more guards, all of them looking _very_ skeptical of this endeavor, until he reaches a small room where he’s told to wait. There is just a small table and a couple of chairs on opposite sides of it, and there are handcuffs attached to the surface. Of course there would be.

“Make yourself comfortable,” the guard tells him, “we’re bringing _him_ over in a minute.”

“Thank you,” Federigo replies, politely, knowing that it’s a sorry job and they certainly deserve better pay.

He sits down, placing his worn-out Bible on the tabletop, and waits.

True to their word, they’re here with _him_ a short while later. _He_ , Federigo notices, is definitely a man who kept in shape even while approaching his sixties — he’s lean and tall, with very short hair of a dark gray that might go lighter soon, and a pair of bright blue eyes that for a moment almost makes him look down as they meet his. He says nothing as the guard handcuffs him to the table and he takes his seat.

“Well,” the guard says, “you’ve got half an hour because then his lawyer’s coming in. Good luck Father, guess you’ll need it.”

“Thank you,” Federigo replies politely again, and waits until the man leaves and locks the door.

He expects the other man to talk, but he says nothing. When _he_ hasn’t said nothing but has merely stared at him for a few minutes, Federigo supposes this won’t be one of those times in which he’s merely supposed to listen.

“Well,” he says then, “I’ve been told _you_ wanted to talk to me. I’m all ears. What was it that my good colleague couldn’t do for you?”

His eyes stare into Federigo’s, then he gives him a hint of a smile

“Let’s say he could do _nothing_ for me,” he says. He has a deep voice, Federigo notices. One that definitely makes you think he _could_ command criminals for years. “We talked for a bit, but I don’t think he’s the right person for what I would like to discuss.”

“Really. Why’s that?”

The other man shrugs. “Your esteemed colleague looks like the kind of man who became a priest because of security,” he says without preambles, and for a moment Federigo is about to deny it vehemently because he should defend someone he’s known for years, but he has a feeling that this man would not appreciate being lied to, and in all honesty…

“Father Abbondio is _not_ a bad priest,” Federigo says, because all in all, he’s _not_ , “but — it _is_ true that he doesn’t have much of a taste for the, how shall we say, more challenging parts of the job.” Which is why _his_ parish is the one where people in the area with _troubles_ go even if technically they live somewhere else.

“As I figured,” the other man says. “I also do not think he cares much for challenging his beliefs.”

Federigo cannot go and say differently, either. “He never cared for theological arguing, that’s also true, but that still does not make him a _bad_ priest.”

“I suppose not, I wouldn’t know. But that makes him the kind of priest I do not need and from what I hear, you might be a better choice.”

“Why, do you _need_ a priest?”

“I don’t know yet,” comes the answer. “But I suppose I will find out.”

This conversation has _not_ shed any light on the matter, but if anything Federigo supposes that this will be one of those instances where he _will_ have to argue theology.

Which is fine by him — no one who will not be ready to have their faith questioned would be good at this job, he thinks.

“So how can I help you?”

For a long moment, there comes no answer. Then, those bright blue eyes fix upon his all over again. “I asked your colleague how he came to take his vows.”

“All right. And?”

“He first said he didn’t know how it was relevant to our conversation, but then he spun a very short story about how he felt some sort of _call_ when he was young and went into the seminary figuring out that he’d understand if it was the right one, he decided it was, and that was it. Then I asked him a few questions but I felt like I was back in catechism and honestly, there is a reason why I never thought I would need a priest until — recently.”

“So now you would like to ask me those same questions?”

“What if I do?”

Federigo shrugs. “Do go ahead. If I couldn’t explain my point of view to people who think differently I would not be doing this job, would I?”

“I don’t think you are the majority. Very well then. _How_ did you decide this was what you wanted to do with your life?”

“You mean, why am I a priest?”

The other man nods.

“Well,” Federigo says, “it was — I think we are about the same age. So you _would_ remember the war, wouldn’t you?”

“I do,” the man says dryly.

“Then you remember — how hard it was. I was sixteen in ’44. I used to do whatever I could for the local partisans, but I didn’t feel like it was enough, and people around me kept on dying and I felt useless, and — I thought, maybe God was sending me a message and telling me that I could have helped out a lot more people if I wore His sacraments. I went into a seminary then, but it was a harsh time and we really didn’t go through all the usual time it takes to be confirmed, so I could take my vows by the time ’45 began. It wasn’t customary, but there was the need. I wanted to be helpful. And I felt Him calling to me to do it, and I never regretted it.”

“Hm. This is more respectable than your _colleague_ , but what if I asked you, _how_ could you still think God existed in the face of that horror?”

“He gave us free will,” Federigo replies, “and free will does not mean stopping us from doing horrible things, sad as it sounds.”

“That sounds rather convenient.”

Fair point. “Well, there is a reason why man is imperfect and God is not.”

“And why would _anyone_ create us just to witness how wrong we can be when left to our own devices?”

“But people do not just do _wrong_ if left to their own devices. All right, fine, human nature might be faulty and a lot of us fail at being our best selves. Still, a lot of people did good or tried to do good, regardless of how blurred the lines might have been then. Those circumstances are where you can see that we _are_ good, fundamentally. And also, I will admit, it’s rather more comforting to me to think that whatever horrible thing one might do, there is a chance for salvation.”

“That also sounds terribly convenient.”

“I would rather believe in a God who will accept anyone who has honestly repented than one who condemns people to damnation on principle.”

“And isn’t that what other people who believe in your same holy book seem to think?”

“True,” Federigo concedes, “but as arrogant as it might sound, I do not think John Calvin had read carefully my favorite passage from the New Testament.”

“I like people who can challenge authority.” He smiles, slightly, but obviously _meaning_ it. “Dare I ask which one it is?”

“You can ask. It’s —”

He never finishes that answer, because then the door has opened. Has it been half an hour already?

“Father?” The guard says. “Sorry for bothering you, but the lawyer’s here and he insists that he needs more time to discuss with, uh, _him_. I am afraid —”

“That’s all right, son,” Federigo says. “If my guest wants me back here on Wednesday, we can resume our conversation.”

“I should like it,” _he_ replies.

“Then I will tell you about it two days from now. With permission,” Federigo says, standing up. The other man nods at him and he nods at the guard as he leaves.

His hands, he notices as he holds on to his Bible, are sweating.

——

By the time he’s back on Wednesday, he’s had a couple days of fire — first he had to argue with the local library director who has changed recently and is not so on board with the deal he had with the previous one (as in, giving free cards to whichever kids in his parish that cannot afford it and having weekly trips to the library with all of them), then an old parishioner died and he has to officiate the funeral tomorrow and he needs to write down a proper speech since the poor woman was very active in the church until she fell sick and he wouldn’t want to give her a bad send-off, and on top of that the local bishop has sent him another letter where, even if sugarcoated, he was pretty much saying that he did not appreciate knowing that Federigo has occasionally given communion to divorced couples, regardless of how much they’re more Christian than half of the people coming to Mass every Sunday.

Federigo likes to think that he’s trying to get on with the times while the bishop is _not_ , but he will just reply with the usual drivel and he will keep on doing exactly what he has been doing until now, and he’s _not_ going to tell the bishop that he was thinking of not refusing the next time they ask him if he can officiate the funeral of someone who committed suicide — it doesn’t happen often, but it _does_. What the bishop doesn’t know won’t hurt him, he reasons.

That said, he likes to keep his appointments _and_ promises, and so he’s there at the allotted time. He’s brought to the cell, waits a few minutes, the prisoner is handcuffed and brought in as usual.

“Tiring day, Father?” He asks after a moment.

“You could say that,” he doesn’t lie. “But I figured it wasn’t the kind of job that would require a lot of sitting around when I volunteered for it, as I already told you.”

“That you did,” _he_ agrees. “So, before we were so rudely interrupted, you said you would tell me about your _favorite_ passage, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Federigo confirms. “I suppose you’re not familiar with Luke’s gospel.”

“As I said, I do not have very fond memories of catechism.”

“I think most people don’t.” He honestly hopes the kids in his parish _do_ , if anything because rather than _catechism_ he lets them play football most times and he prefers to discuss things with them rather than just boring them with reading the Bible. “Very well. It’s the ending.”

He finds it without a problem — it’s the most read-through part of the book, anyway. “Shall I?”

“Be my guest.”

“Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.’ And they divided up his clothes by casting lots. The people stood watching, and the rulers even sneered at him. They said, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is God’s Messiah, the Chosen One.’ The soldiers also came up and mocked him. They offered him wine vinegar and said, ‘If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself.’ There was a written notice above him, which read: THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS. One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: ‘Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ But the other criminal rebuked him. ‘Don’t you fear God,’ he said, ‘since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

He closes the book, takes a breath and looks up at his interlocutor — his blue eyes look very sharp now, extremely focused, and he doesn’t want to think that such a man was _moved_ by his reading, but maybe there’s a hint of it.

Or maybe Federigo is just tired, which is another very likely option.

“See,” he says, “when I said before that I like to believe in a God who’ll let you into Heaven even at the last moment, I was thinking of _this_. The thief didn’t think his actions would grant him salvation and didn’t even ask for it, did he, and instead _he_ has a place with our Lord and most people who _think_ they do most likely will not. I hate it when people presume that their behavior _will_ get them a reward and act for the sake of it.”

The other man nods, twice, obviously thinking on his words.

“It seems to me,” he finally says, “that your Church hardly remembers passages such as this.”

Federigo thinks of the bishop’s letter, still lying on his desk in his parish, opened and unanswered. “Man is fallible,” he says, “and in between us, I think us servants of the Lord could do with more humility and less assuming that since He talks through us, then we must be right always. Of course, my direct superiors wouldn’t know that _this_ is my opinion.”

“Of course they would not,” the other man agrees, blue eyes still fixed on Federigo’s, and he’s not going to cower under the intensity of that stare but he can understand why _this_ man eluded the law for so long and how he could get as far as he did. What he would like to know is, _why did he change his mind_. “So, according to _your_ opinion of your scripture, even someone such as me would stand a chance of salvation?”

“From what I know, there have been worse people than _you_ who then changed their ways sincerely. And there are worse people than you who profess themselves men or women of faith and receive communion every Sunday while —” He stops, wondering whether he should say it or not, but then again he has a feeling that whatever his interlocutor is searching for, he’s going to find it through honest answers. And who else would _he_ tell anyway? “— While my bishop keeps on thinking that I should not give it to divorced people, so while I do not presume to know what He thinks at any given time, or I would be fairly arrogant, given what the scriptures say, I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibilities, if you mean it.”

“Isn’t that presuming to know what He thinks, though?”

“It’s in His book,” Federigo smiles back, “and I don’t think _that_ part is such a hardship to interpret now.”

“Fair,” the man agrees, looking troubled. For a moment Federigo thinks he’s going to tell him more, and then the guard comes back in and says their time is up.

“Should I come back next Monday?” Federigo asks, not presuming the outcome of their conversation.

“If you would,” the other man says.

“I will,” Federigo agrees, and leaves the small cell, the guard escorting him.

He doesn’t know what it says about him that he’d rather have kept on talking to _him_ than go back home to the answer he has to pen to the bishop, but honestly? He _would_.

Alas, things never go as one would like.

——

By next Monday, he has told the bishop that he’s going to put an end to the whole divorcees-getting-communion business knowing that he will not, he has tentatively brokered his new deal with the new library director, has the funeral behind him, has slept maybe three hours per night after taking in a few prostitutes who want to press charges in his parish and argued with his housekeeper because of that, and he’s certainly not going to tell the bishop that he agreed to marry this young couple from the nearby town whose priest refused because she’s most definitely pregnant.

“Your esteemed colleague Father Abbondio never looks as tired as you do,” _he_ says first thing after the guard leaves.

“What can we do,” Federigo says, “he sticks to mass, marriages and funerals. Coming _here_ is the only… somewhat _hard_ thing he does, but everyone takes their mission differently. I think I should do more and that’s why I’m tired.”

“You’re saying that with remarkable good humor.”

“Speaking ill of others who have no more power than I do isn’t how I’m going to accomplish things.”

The other man nods.

Then —

“I imagine you want to know why I want to talk to a priest.”

“That crossed my mind, but I came here because I was called and I never refused to see anyone who wanted to see me first. You could not tell and I would respect it.”

“I think,” he says, “that you also might wonder why did I let myself get caught.”

“… I think I wouldn’t be the only one pondering that, even if I honestly have had more pressing matters to worry about these last few months. But yes, given your, hm, _status_ , it does strike as odd.”

“I can imagine that. Father, I suppose that if I tell you something _now_ , you won’t tell others, will you?”

“I could treat this conversation like a confession, if you’d like.”

“I would like.”

“Then by all means.”

For a while, _he_ says nothing.

Then —

“You _do_ know why I’m here.”

“Well, the papers say it was a young woman you kidnapped and then left free.”

“True enough. You see, her fiancé works in that one textile factory. He’s also in the union. The factory he works in is owned by this person we shall not name, who would rather _not_ have to deal with union reps, if you catch my meaning. The owner also had taken a shine to this young girl, shall we say.”

“As in —”

“As in, he _liked_ her. And he had tried to convince her to elope with him, if not to at least grant him a small concession of the kind you can imagine, but she refused him more than once. This, while her fiancé was trying to get him to actually raise their wages. That was not working so well for the factory owner, and so he came to me for a _favor_.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, since the fiancé was being a _nuisance_ , I was to kidnap the girl and scare her some and possibly convince her to, well, say yes to his advances. It’s not the worst thing I have ever done, admittedly, and the payment was good, and he would have owed me a favor, so I did it.”

Federigo nods, figuring he’s not going to share his opinion about the story in question until it’s over.

“Then she was brought to the… safe house I had ready. And she was scared out of her mind, but resolutely said _no_ when I tried to get her to cooperate. And she spent two days praying whenever she wasn’t sleeping or eating. Which was — somehow disconcerting, because she never wavered once. I asked her how she was so sure that it would help her any, and she said she _knew_. And — that was — disconcerting, to say the least. At least, _to me_. She also was seemingly convinced that I would see I was doing the wrong thing because it’s never too late for anyone to go back on it.”

Federigo nods, wishing that the girl was in _his_ parish for a moment.

“I — _thought_ about it,” he says. There’s a lot of implications in that _thought_ , but Federigo doesn’t ask any further. “She — made me think about a lot of my life choices.” He takes a breath. “And after a few days of having here _there_ , I couldn’t handle it anymore.”

“So —”

“I let her go and I told her to press charges.”

“ _You_ did?”

“I did. I — I didn’t know if I could keep on doing what I always had, not after — after I _thought_ about it. I also am not saying I do _not_ deserve being here, but I thought that I could sort out my thoughts in prison while I paid my due.”

“And how is that working for you?”

“I am talking to _you_ , am I not?”

“That you are,” Federigo nods. “And what is _the_ point? I feel like you have been skirting around it this long but haven’t uncovered it yet.”

“What if I’m feeling like _something_ is amiss in the way I look at the world these days, and I don’t know what to do with it nor with knowing that with everything I’ve done I would deserve the worst consequences and no forgiveness, and what if you’re telling me that there’s a chance for salvation even for _me_ and I wouldn’t know what to do with it, either?”

So _that_ was the point, wasn’t it?

“Well, it sounds to me like you do have a conscience, which is only good news as far as He is concerned, I think, and as _I_ am concerned. I am not telling you there _isn’t_ a chance, but — see, it has to come from _you_. And if you want me to tell you what you should do now, sorry but I am not _that_ kind of priest.”

“I didn’t think you were. Which is why I’m talking to _you_ , am I not?”

Fair enough. He considers it, then figures that it cannot hurt, and he fishes for his Bible in the pocket of his robe before he slides it over to the other side of the table.

“You know what,” he says, “I think you should have a read at the Gospels _without_ thinking about catechism. I don’t believe in _telling_ people how they should handle their feelings when it comes to Him, and I think people _should_ read the entire thing before making up their mind. I will want it back next week, though. I’ve had that since the forties, it’s on loan.”

Blue eyes lock with his, again. “Very well.” _His_ voice is steady but his hands are slightly trembling as he takes the book, and just in time since the guard knocks on the door again saying their time is up.

“I will see you in a week then,” Federigo says, and leaves the room short of one Bible and figuring that even if he never gets it back, it’s probably going to be worth it.

Until _then_ , he has plenty more copies at his parish and plenty more things to occupy his time with.

——

“So, did you finish that book?” Federigo asks next Monday, sitting down on the usual chair. _His_ hands are still cuffed to the table and his old Bible is in between the two of them, and he has blue eyes staring into his all over again intently.

“I have little else to do in my spare time,” comes as an answer.

Federigo takes it back. “Should I ask how did you like it, or would that make things too simplistic?”

_He_ smiles slightly again. His teeth are very white, Federigo notices.

“Maybe,” he says. “But what if I told you that I _might_ be thinking of talking to the prosecution?”

Federigo doesn’t immediately get it, but when he realizes what it meant —

_Wait a moment_.

“You mean, you’re thinking of… collaborating with the police?”

“I might,” _he_ agrees. “I mean, I _had_ considered it before, but — I had reasons not to. I will admit your view of the situation might have weighted in taking that decision.”

Federigo is _not_ going to take it for granted. “So,” he says, “it might be that God spoke to you?”

“I wouldn’t presume that. If it was that easy to hear him, now people wouldn’t have to have _faith_ now, they’d just have proof. But your arguments were more convincing than anyone else’s that I heard up until this point. I also don’t presume that even if you were right then _I_ would have any chance of seeing my wrongdoings forgiven.”

“I don’t think any of us should _presume_ anything,” Federigo agrees, “but if you read Matthew, you should be aware at least of _one_ thing.”

“Such as?”

“Only Our Lord knows who is going to join Him in Heaven and not everyone who is so sure they will actually _might_. And not anyone who speaks in His name being so sure about it is doing it. I don’t like to presume what He might decide of anyone. I only like to presume He sees the good in everyone and that it’s never too late for anyone.”

“I suppose that I can still hope that Purgatory exists, just in case.”

Federigo does laugh at that, even if he shouldn’t. It wasn’t a bad joke, all things considered. “Oh, it most likely does, in _some_ form. But maybe you should ask yourself something else first.”

“I’m all ears.”

Federigo glances at his clock. They don’t have much time allotted for today. He will have to be brief, he supposes.

“Regardless of whether your action deserve eternal damnation or not, you’re here wondering if you can somehow make up for them. That would suggest to me that you have a conscience, which in turn would make your chances at salvation remarkably higher in comparison to, let’s say, someone who only does good deeds because they know it will get them into Heaven and not because they take joy in doing them regardless, and then behave improperly on the side. And at this point… forgive me for the frankness, but let’s say that I’m wrong and there’s no God. In that case you wouldn’t have any salvation or reward after, but since you _do_ have that conscience, placating it would make your life easier, wouldn’t it?”

“It… would, yes.” He sounds troubled. Federigo can see that he must have slept very poorly, recently.

“I imagine the nights don’t treat you well?”

“They don’t. Why, what do you know of it?”

He shrugs, his fingers wrapped around the Bible, feeling a urge to reach out and at least touch the man’s hand for some reason he can’t quite pinpoint, but it would be improper and certainly not something _he_ should do, if he is to treat this conversation as a confession. “I only know that people who have committed heinous crimes whose conscience has felt God might not sleep easily, while the ones whose conscience has _not_ , tend to find better respite at night. You might consider that, too.”

“So what, He’s haunting my dreams so that I can better myself?”

“He might be,” Federigo says, “or it might be all you, or both things, but there’s a reason why we have free will. You can choose to be better or not whether you feel Him or not, that’s between the two of you, but in my experience if your conscience is calling, then a part of you wants to alleviate it, not to silence it.”

_He_ glances at the clock on the wall. Federigo can see that their time is coming to a close. “I have just one last question for you, then, if you’ll answer it.”

“I answered until now, haven’t I?”

“Very well.” He breathes in once, twice. “If I had come to ask you these very same questions before now. When I still was —”

“The kind of criminal people are too afraid to name?”

“Yes. Would you have heard me?”

Federigo looks up at him again, not breaking eye contact as much as he feels like that man’s eyes might make him burn. “I’ve _never_ not heard anyone who came to my parish, I’ve been lying to the bishop for years about giving divorced people the communion, right now there are some three former drug addicts keeping my parish clean in exchange for a place to sleep and that’s without counting the time I refused the bishop when he said I should tell people who to vote for in the last sermon before the elections years ago. I like to think that I’m not the kind of person who turns anyone out of the door. I would have heard you. I mean, I come _here_ to hear people out and I volunteered for it, now I’d be a hypocrite if I decided some of them weren’t worth listening to, right?”

“I cannot disagree with that notion. It’s just, a lot of people don’t deliver on what they say.”

“I’d like to die knowing I _did_ take my mission seriously.”

“Father —” _He_ says, and then the usual guard walks in and say their time is up. Federigo nods, takes back his Bible and slips it inside his pocket.

“Until next time,” he says, nodding at _him_.

He doesn’t get an answer.

But Federigo thinks _he_ might have mouthed a _thank you_ his way as he was escorted out of the room.

He figures he will ask next week.

——

He _doesn’t_ ask next week, because a few days later it turns out that _he_ has indeed talked to the police and has been transferred somewhere else — a maximum security facility, or so it seems. Everyone he talks to seems relieved at the news, apparently he was too high in the food chain for this particular facility. Federigo hears the director’s news, says he understands and goes back to his main duty, as in, _confessing the actual inmates_ and thinking about what he’s going to tell them at Mass later in the evening.

Still, he thinks of that last conversation they had.

Not many people _thank him_ for that kind of conversation. And from the way _he_ was staring at Federigo when their eyes met that last time, he was sure what they had to say hadn’t been over. He wonders, _did I convince him when I wasn’t even trying to?_

Or maybe, _did he hear Him the same way I did so many years ago_?

He can only hope so. Maybe he’ll find out soon. Maybe not. But he can’t help also wondering about what he asked at the end.

_Would you have heard me?_

Federigo wonders, _how many people have actually heard him so far_?

Something suggests him, _not many_.

He opens his Bible. It’s pristine, not counting how badly Federigo himself damaged it. But he has no doubt it has been read — well, he treated it like a loan and not like most kids in the parish treat _any_ book he lends them. (Abbondio once told him, _that’s why you shouldn’t lend anyone your books_ , but Federigo likes to think that if people might learn something from them, then patience if they come back ruined.)

He closes it again.

Well, if they never see each other again, he just hopes that man finds peace, somehow.

He looked in dire need of it, regardless of anything else he might have done.

_Six months later_

“There is a letter for you by registered post, Father.”

Federigo is kind of surprised as he takes it from the postman and signs it — he does get mail, of course, but usually not the kind that gets tracked. The bishop surely doesn’t send him _tracked_ letters. And usually people use it for packages or important documents, not… regular correspondence.

Still, it looks like regular correspondence. The envelope is white, pristine, except for his name written in an elegant cursive on the back.

Federigo thanks the postman and goes back to the rectory, closing the door to his small bedroom and opening the parchment.

His eyes go _wide_ as he notices that it’s from _him_.

He drinks the glass of water he had on his nightstand, then proceeds to read the entire letter — it’s not overtly long.

_Dear Father_ , it starts. _I imagine you are well-aware of my current situation_.

Federigo _is_. He has followed the news. The man did collaborate, and apparently regardless of how long his criminal record is, the information he shared were extremely important and confidential, so he has struck some kind of deal that from what Federigo had gathered would spare him a trial and eventually would grant him freedom under a new name, after a couple of years of house arrest during which his contacts with the outside world would be strictly monitored. Admittedly, for someone coming from _that_ background, it’s an excellent deal. He also must have had some extremely important information to share if _he_ was allowed to strike it. He goes on.

_I have found myself in the middle of a, shall we say, deep and personal change lately, and I can say for sure that you have had quite some merit in bringing it on. I don’t know if I have reached a full decision yet concerning our conversations, but they have been surely enlightening and I found myself wishing for your company at times, as they did happen to be the most enlightening moments of my weeks in prison. And possibly also the only happenings I looked forward to._

_As you will known already, I cannot set food outside my house for a long while. Nonetheless, I have been allowed visitors, if not connected to my previous life and deeds. That would, of course, mean that anyone I knew before I consigned myself to our dutiful forces of law and order would not qualify. However, you would, so I was wondering if you would be so kind to join me once in a while for dinner, or any other chance you would prefer. Please do let me know, and of course I won’t take it personally nor harbor hard feelings for you if your answer is no. If it’s yes, feel free to write back at the address on the bottom of this missive._

_Yours._

It’s not signed, but there’s no need to, is it?

Federigo reads it again, and again, and ponders it. Surely it wouldn’t be the same as talking to an inmate in jail, which is what he has signed up for when he took his vows.

Still, priests do visit others all the time, and if the man has found the Lord and wishes to discuss it with _him_ , well — who is Federigo to deny him? Dinner _might_ cause issues, especially when this next month he has an endless list of duties to attend to, with All Saints’s approaching soon first and foremost, but —

But he thinks he can find a compromise. He finds envelope and a piece of paper, then checks the address, writes it down on the envelope and moves on to the sheet. He keeps it brief, figuring there won’t be any need to be too long-winded. He writes a few lines congratulating the man on his newfound spirituality and on doing the right thing.

Then —

_I would have no issues visiting you,_ he writes. _However, dinner might prove itself a problem as October is a pretty full month so I cannot regretfully accept it for now… but I would be glad to accept your invitation if it was for breakfast, at least until the month is over. If it’s fine with you, let me know when and I will come._

_Yours respectfully._

He signs it, then puts it in the envelope and since he does have the time for it, he heads for the post office. He mails it, wondering, _what is it that I’m doing?_

He doesn’t know, but _something_ within him says that it’s the right thing to do and what his mission demands of him, never mind that a part of him also misses those conversations — surely they were more intellectually stimulating than about most he has in general, and he _had_ missed arguing theology, maybe. And he wants to see what became of _him_. After all, _he_ was specifically summoned, and he would hate to not know how their _conversations_ were somehow enlightening.

So he figures he’ll wait for the answer.

It arrives two days later. It says breakfast is entirely acceptable, and says three days for then, confirming the address. It’s not _too_ far, Federigo reasons. He could even bike there, if he wanted. Maybe he will, maybe he’ll go by foot, maybe he’ll just take the early morning bus.

But _something_ within him is itching at the thought of seeing the other man again.

Well, he’s going to figure it out, eventually. For now, he knows he has an appointment to meet, and he will go.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

_So much for salvation and so much for Purgatory._

Right now, both of them seem entirely out of reach, and there’s no one he can blame except, well, _himself_.

Or maybe he should blame _her_ , but that would be unfair. It would be fun, in retrospective, to think that a criminal empire so large that making the names of the most influential people associated with it was enough to buy its creator his freedom would crumble because of a girl who could barely vote and only wanted to get married to her high school sweetheart.

Except that it _has_ , because if _he_ hadn’t accepted that one job, he wouldn’t be here hoping that no one kills him before the trial and feeling his stomach contort over and over in guilt as he stares at the man sipping coffee from across his table.

He honestly hadn’t thought Father Federigo _would_ accept that invitation. He had sent it expecting no answer, because after all why would anyone associate themselves with a known criminal, reformed or not? Not that he thinks he’s earned any reform, until now. Instead he was told yes, and now here they are, having breakfast at the table in his living room, that he specifically set _properly_. He’s been a rich man since he realized that crime gained. There is no reason why he wouldn’t use the silver coffee pot or the porcelain cups, and he made sure to have plenty of food available.

In prison, he had the impression that Father Federigo didn’t really indulge in fancy breakfasts, or meals. He thinks he’s had the right impression, given how the priest had looked at the table with wide, blue eyes as he walked inside the room.

“Your hospitality is certainly _something_ ,” Father Federigo says, interrupting his trail of thought.

“I would like to think I can be a gracious host, if I want to,” he replies, reaching for his second coffee.

_If only you knew_.

It’s not that he had lied when he sent that letter.

Oh, no, he _hasn’t_.

That girl had planted the seed of doubt in him, and she had made him think back on his dreadful, wretched life, with that unshakeable _faith_ of hers that God would have helped her in her time of need, and hadn’t she been right after all? _He_ let her go and _he_ let her press charges (she said she wouldn’t, but he _did_ tell her) because somehow that — that was an alarm that made him think back on, _what have I done until now_?

Nothing to be proud of, that’s for sure.

Fine.

He hasn’t exactly _thought_ about the moral implications of his life decisions until — well. Until _she_ showed up.

And then he couldn’t do anything _but_ , that nagging voice in the back of his head telling him, _you don’t even let people utter your name or call you by it, how do you even tell yourself you’re proud of your accomplishments_?

Well, he’s not. But until that seed was planted, he could avoid considering that angle.

Then he couldn’t anymore, but as much as he thought that maybe, _maybe_ that nagging conscience that plagued him sometimes might have been something else he always refused to believe in because there was _no way_ Church nonsense might be real, not when it’s all made of hypocrites who only use religion for whichever is their personal gain and never in his experience did otherwise. Never mind that he could never once in his life talk to _one_ of those priests or prelates that actually seemed to have chosen that job for anything other than power or money or security or stability, and then how were they different from _him_? He doesn’t think much, and he hasn’t changed his mind until now.

And then the man in front of him showed up in his cell.

What had struck him about Father Federigo was, in all honestly, that he didn’t seem to talk to him out of obligation, but also that he wasn’t assuming he could convince anyone of his side just by stating his argument. He did talk, and he did argue, from behind those blue eyes and strong face and rough hands — that was obvious just by looking at them.

And he also never assured him _anything_ either way. All the priests that sat across from him at catechisms would sound very, _very_ sure of themselves as they proclaimed that certain behaviors meant damnation or salvation, but the man in front of him never did, and it hadn’t come as a surprise that the bishop apparently hates him. Or so he has been told.

He only assured him that salvation _could_ be there for him if only he let it happen, and when thumbing through that old, worn-out bible, reading all over again and again, _truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise_ , wondering, _it could have been true for that thief, but am I not much worse than that?_

_Am I not being entirely worse now as I wonder if he’d let me —_

Well.

So much for salvation.

You’d think that someone who has maybe just recently decided that the world isn’t so devoid of spirituality as he had thought, that maybe the warmth he feels rising in his chest at the thought of living a life undoing all of the wrong he caused or trying to and knowing he was doing right, that maybe even if he’s not a young man it’s not too late to make up for it and live a few years not _basking_ in that warmth but at least tasting some of it, not wondering anymore how it feels to live with no reassurances of any kind —

You’d think someone like _that_ wasn’t harboring thoughts about the _priest_ in front of him that are nowhere in the same realm as the word pure, or holy, or sacred, or anything of the kind.

And yet —

Well.

That kind of thoughts, _he_ personally never found much of a problem _himself_. It’s not as if he ever had a thought for who he wished to bed. He’s occasionally had both men and women and enjoyed his time with both, though none of the people he _did_ bed ever were the kind that made him feel like they were worth changing his life for. Nor they were worth any change he’d have had to make to accommodate them.

But —

But he’s slept at night dreaming of Father Federigo’s smile as he discussed his _God_ , as he implied that he had more space for love inside Him than anything else regardless of how wretched the human race could be, he’s wondered if _some_ of his salvation could come from those hands and that voice and those eyes and immediately felt dirty for even thinking that, because he shouldn’t have been thinking about _that_ , he shouldn’t have wanted a man who’s sworn himself to Heaven and not Earth, he shouldn’t tie _that_ to that salvation that he craves with the more time it passes —

Somehow, even if he never supposed he’d follow any kind of script here, he has a feeling this is not how it’s supposed to go.

“You have been,” Father Federigo says, nodding, those eyes of his seeming slightly bluer in the early morning light. “But you look troubled.”

“Am I so transparent?” He stalls, sipping his lukewarm coffee, shame heavy on his shoulders.

“Could be, but I wouldn’t expect otherwise.” Father Federigo sets down his cup, reaching for a small pastry. “Not that gluttony ever was my sin, but I’ll admit that once in a while it’s nice to eat proper breakfast.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not usually.” He shrugs. “I happen to be busy in the mornings. Still, we’re not here to discuss _myself_ , are we?”

He swallows, wondering if he should _not_ say it, if he should keep the reason of his invitation hidden, if he should just keep the discussion on what they already talked about in prison.

But —

“I suppose not.” He breathes in, his stomach churning over in guilt, again and again, his voice maybe faltering for the first time in years if not counting that night Lucia Mondella was brought over — “And I don’t think that God, wherever he is, would appreciate of what I have to say.”

“I don’t know,” Father Federigo says, “you’re not doubting His existence in the first place. I think He wouldn’t be displeased with it.”

“That’s something,” he agrees, “but — what if I found myself wanting — things I shouldn’t want?”

“Does any of that include committing crimes of some nefarious nature?” He’s smiling slightly, as if he he knows or feels that it’s _not_ the answer.

_How could someone not assume it when talking to_ me _out of anyone?_

“Not — I suppose not in the strict sense of it. But those might be crimes for what concerns _your_ lot.”

“ _My_ lot?”

“The Church. Or even His word.”

“Ah, but as we already said once already, all men are fallible. Including us, His servants. And what is this _thing_ you shouldn’t want?”

He keeps his hands around the coffee cup. He feels like he might break it.

“Admittedly, it’s not… a _thing_. More, a person.”

Father Federigo’s eyes stare up into his as he pushes his cup away, moving back. He can see that under his priest’s black robes he still has a lean body, and he feels another pang of shame kick him in the gut because he shouldn’t be noticing, but of course a man who is out the entire day doing good for others might keep himself in shape, and that is nothing a man in search of salvation should ogle at.

Except that he _is_ doing that, as much as he wishes he wasn’t.

“Not to be forthcoming, but I imagine this person you want is not a woman?”

He feels the coffee rise up through his throat, even if he’s swallowed it already. “How could you guess?”

Father Federigo shrugs. “If it was a woman, you would have said so at once. Or at least, none of the men who ever confessed to me anything about forbidden love ever shied away from mentioning that it was a woman they wanted when it was the case. So I have to guess it’s not your case.”

“That’s not the entire problem. But it’s part of it.”

Father Federigo gives him another shrug. “Paul didn’t write the Gospels,” he says. “If _that_ is your only issue, I don’t remember ever reading our Savior speaking on that one subject. Also, there’s something else I always assumed on that subject.”

“Such as?”

“I think,” he says, “that He would rather see His children feel love _at all_ than the contrary. Now, is that _love_ or is that merely _want_? Because God is _love_ , and He has always been.”

Oh, if only he knew the difference. If only _he_ did. But whatever is burning him from the inside out is a horrible, consuming feeling that makes him almost dizzy, and he hates that he’s doing this, he hates that maybe whatever it is that he’s feeling will spill out and ruin the man in front of him, who deserves certainly better than that and better than someone who has years’s worth of sins to espiate, if he even can, if there’s even a way to —

“What if I tell you that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt the difference?”

“How so?”

“Well. I knew when it _wasn’t_ love.”

“And is it the case now?”

“… No,” he admits, finally raising up his eyes — until now, he had glanced at his hands. Not that he likes looking at his hands much.

“Then you know it’s _not_ just want.”

“You seem remarkably… fine with it.”

Another shrug. “I have seen enough and met enough people in more than thirty years of serving Him. A lot of them had your sort of problem. I never thought they deserved eternal damnation for that. And even if my _lot_ is right and it’s wrong, well, God is immensely forgiving. I’m sure loving someone is not where He draws that line.”

“You sound like you have… some experience,” he presses.

“Me?” He half-smiles, then shakes his head. “There might have been a girl I kissed right before the war, but that was about it. I did swear myself to God. Of course, I’m not the kind of my _lot_ who thinks that people who _don’t_ value their chastity are automatically damned, but no, my only experience is hearing others’s confessions.”

Oh.

_Oh_.

He’s also — he’s _never_ — and he _wants him_ —

He _really_ will be doomed, won’t he?

“This is not helping,” he whispers, wishing he could just stop talking and be done with it, but — his life certainly didn’t help him make any friends and he never wanted any in the first place, it would have only meant more people who might stab him in the back, and certainly none of the people he had sex with expected more than that nor he would have given it to them, and now _this_ is the man he feels he wants and he shouldn’t presume, he shouldn’t ever, not when he’s just realized that maybe salvation isn’t beyond him or at least not a completely barren road to him —

“Maybe it would if you said _who_ it is that is distressing you so.”

“I have a feeling it wouldn’t.”

“If I am to treat this as a _confession_ same as the other times,” Father Federigo says, “it won’t leave this room.”

He breathes in and out, his elbows hitting the table, his traitorous hand shaking.

Then he figures that if he has to do this, he will do it with his head held high same as he lived until now, for bad and good.

“What if,” he clears his throat, holding the stare of those blue eyes, “that person is right in front of me?”

To Father Federigo’s credit, he only squints his eyes in confusion for a handful of moments.

Then he understands at once, it’s obvious from his stare, and of course he would, he’s hardly a daft man —

But he doesn’t stand up and leave.

Rather, he lets out a shaky breath and _holds his stare_.

“Well,” he says, “given that the last time someone told me such a thing it was in the fifties, and just to say how much of a pity it was that I wasn’t, shall we say, available… on one side, it’s kind of flattering.”

“Wait — _flattering_?”

He shrugs. “A man can be indulged in a tiny bit of vanity,” he says. “But that’s not — the point,” he says, “or I guess it isn’t. You — _really_?”

“Shamefully so,” he confirms.

“Shamefully?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I be? You’re — you said it. You swore yourself to God, and now that I might be thinking I was right all along, I’m here —”

“You’re here feeling _something_ that’s not necessarily want.”

Father Federigo stands up, moving towards his side of the table, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve told you, God is _love_. I won’t be the one berating you for such a thing. Now the question is, what do you want to do about it?”

He feels like the priest’s hand is burning through his shirt. “Do I have a choice? Of course nothing. I couldn’t ask you —”

“That’s presuming I wouldn’t be willing,” the priest says, and he feels like the chair will fall to pieces under him.

“You — _would_?”

Another shrug. “If it’s wrong, God will surely forgive me one moment of weakness after serving Him for this long. And I think that if you feel _any_ kind of love, for me and whatnot, then that trumps anything else.”

“You shouldn’t say this. You said you’ve never — I couldn’t presume — you already shouldn’t, but with _me_ , that would be —”

“I don’t know,” he says, “why _not_?”

“I don’t think,” he wheezes, “that it wouldn’t damn me further.”

“Do you _feel_ like that? I didn’t think you cared for what _my lot_ said that much.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Popes have had children and mistresses,” Father Federigo says. “If _that_ could happen, I don’t know if _you_ are that much worse. Anyway, I said. What if I’m willing?”

“Is this a test to see if I’ll say no?”

He gets a shake of the head. “Tests are not what I wish others to endure.”

Then, rough fingers move down his arm, until they reach _his_ , and wrap around his wrist, raising it up, and his breath is caught in his throat as Father Federigo’s lips touch the back of his hand, and not tentatively.

He doesn’t know if the noise he made in the back of his throat is anything he’s ever heard coming from _himself_ , but he knows he’s not going to say no. Maybe it’s weakness — it _probably_ is — but asking him to say no would be too much, even if he hates that he can’t, even if he wishes he would not sully the man in front of him —

He stands.

“Do you mean it?” He asks, barely audible. They’re of a height, but Federigo’s skin is a shade paler than his own.

“I don’t think I would joke about _that_ now, wouldn’t I?” The priest’s lips curl into a small smile. “However, I think I should like to know how to call you at least, if you don’t like —”

“I don’t want that name anymore,” he says. “I haven’t for a while. Now especially.”

“Then I won’t ask, unless you have one to give me.”

He shakes his head. “Maybe later,” he says, “but — are you sure —”

“I daresay,” Father Federigo smiles as _his_ hands go up to the priest’s hair, finding it soft and clean and strong even if it’s pale grey by now, “that _you_ might be feeling more scared about this than me. I always liked to think love couldn’t be anything people should be scared of.”

“You seem to be fairly sure of that,” _he_ says as his hands reach the man’s neck, his fingers shaking on the white collar.

“Well,” he says, “I might have got propositioned by a man who was reached by God’s grace regardless and saw fit to change his ways. If _that_ is the love I should experience for the first time, I think I can do a lot worse than that.”

It doesn’t add up.

He can’t just have implied _that_ —

He can’t just have implied that _he_ is somehow a worthy option —

“Then I have a bed upstairs, if you will,” his traitorous mouth says.

“Then you should lead the way,” comes for an answer, and at this point he couldn’t go back if he wanted to.

——

At least, he knows _that_ , he has a comfortable bed. He might have led a cruel life, but he never believed in unnecessary suffering for himself.

He closes the door, his hands shaking. Then he turns to see Father Federigo put the collar on the side, stark white against the black wood of his nightstand.

“I suppose,” he says, “that you have… preferences?”

He swallows. “Do you?”

A shake of the head. “I really don’t think I do. I didn’t even presume I would end up in this situation twelve hours ago. And it’s something _you_ want, right?”

He can feel his own throat working up and down as he meets those warm blue eyes again. “And what if I wanted you to take me?” He asks, shame rising in his throat like black bile.

He can see the priest’s cheeks reddening as his breath turns quicker and he moves closer. “As long as you give me some guidance.”

“I don’t think _I_ am the one doing any kind of guidance here,” he confesses as he opens up his shirt, even if his eyes are staring at Federigo’s hands opening up the black frock. Underneath, he’s wearing old but comfortable jeans and a white shirt, and while they’re not certainly _fitting_ , you can see that he might be approaching sixty but is still in extremely good shape underneath.

“In this case you might have to.” Which is — likely. He supposes. Fuck, what is he doing? He’s about to lie with a _man of God_ , and he can’t, he _can’t_ —

“Shall I remind you,” Federigo says, his hands pushing down _his_ own half-opened shirt, “that I freely consented to this?”

“You shouldn’t have,” he croaks, letting the shirt fall down and opening his trousers.

“But I still did.”

That is true, _he_ thinks as he pushes down both trousers and underwear and goes to lie down on his own comfortable bed.

He doesn’t have the courage to disrobe the other man himself, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , so he watches as he does away with shoes, jeans and underwear, leaving them on a chair. He uncovers long legs, definitely muscled because of all the walking he does, a lean chest with maybe the slight hint of a belly on his stomach, with some graying hair along his sternum, and that’s enough to spike desire that he shouldn’t be feeling throughout his entire chest, but then he glances at the other man’s dick, half-hard, _wait, how_ , and he thinks, _it’s the first time anyone else will touch it_ , and it’s going to be _him_ in all of his unworthiness —

A moment later, the priest is back on the bed, kneeling near him, hands tentatively touching _his_ hips.

“I think,” he says, “this is where I might need guidance.” He actually looks plenty calm about it. Fuck, _fuck_ , he did have standards when fucking other people, but right now — right now, he thinks he wants it to hurt. He thinks he needs it to hurt.

He spreads his legs. “I — I will need your fingers first.”

“And nothing else?”

“Spit is fine,” he says, knowing it won’t be, but the urge inside him tells him that he doesn’t deserve for it to _not_ hurt, and so he leans back and waits until Federigo does that, spitting on the tips of his fingers and tentatively working one inside him. For a moment his eyes widen in _something_ like maybe surprise when he touches his entrance first, but then he pushes in farther, and _farther_ , and it’s tight and he hasn’t _taken_ anyone since he could have a say about it, but now hands that have comforted and healed others for years are slowly, slowly working their way inside him, and it doesn’t matter if the stretch hurts or if spit is never going to be enough —

It’s what he deserves, at least in this case.

He breathes in as Federigo’s hand touches a scar he has on his collarbone.

“Coming with the lifestyle, I gather?” He says, spitting on his fingers again, adding a third, pushing it in.

“Not the only one,” he rasps as the third finger works his way up inside him, again and _again_ , stretching him as open as he can manage, and it’s slow and it burns but nowhere near as much as it should, and then Federigo leans down and kisses that scar once, twice, why, _why would he_ , and he has rough lips on top of rough hands, the free one going back to grasp at his short hair, and his own hands are grasping at the sheets —

“You can touch, if you’d like,” Federigo says, not unkindly. He shakes his head.

“Can I, though?”

“I _did_ fully agree to this,” comes as an answer, and he swallows and does, touching the priest’s shoulders, feeling the lithe muscles underneath, thinking that he might want to kiss that mouth that never had _wrong_ words for him as much as he loathes that he can’t ever keep something he touches untainted, and a moment later he feel the other man’s erection press fully along his leg, and he dares reach down and stroke it once, twice, thrice, and when he hears some remark about _really_ maybe being a different thing when you don’t do it yourself, he almost stops.

“I thought it was a sin,” he groans as he keeps on doing it anyway.

Federigo half-smirks, his cheeks flushing darker. “It’s not in the Gospels and not in Jesus’s word, as far as anyone noticed. Also, I took my vows young — but I wasn’t _fourteen_ when I decided it was what the Lord had in store for me.”

That’s — that makes sense, he thinks, and he feels that half-hard dick get harder and _harder_ inside his hand, and maybe he should just let him spill on it and be content, but they got this far even with how much his chest is still feeling tight with the weight of what he’s doing —

“Do it,” he says, moving his hand away.

“Won’t it hurt you?”

“ _Now_ , it should.”

The priest raises an eyebrow, but then spits against his palm, again, strokes himself experimentally for a moment or two, then lines up to him. He raises his legs upwards at once, feeling the tip touch his entrance, and then he nods, and —

And it _hurts_ and burns as Federigo drives himself inside him, slow but steadfast, but that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be sweet and slow, it’s not for men like _him_. It had to be like _this_ , his flesh stretching and burning around it, his legs grasping the other man’s back, bringing him closer, telling him to just fucking _push_ , and Federigo does a moment later, burying himself in, and for a moment they stay like that, their eyes meeting, and everything _burns_ and hurts but in a good way, and maybe like _this_ he’s paying the price for having wanted it in the first place —

A large, warm hand cups his face.

“I don’t think,” the priest says, “there’s anything wrong with this.”

“Everything is,” his voice says even if it doesn’t sound too convinced, but then Federigo shakes his head, moving back and then inside again, and then again, and then suddenly he hits the right place, and there’s white-hot stars burning behind his eyelids and even if he can still feel the stretch and the burn and the hurt the rest makes up for it, and then —

Then there are rough lips pressed against his, and oh, they haven’t kissed yet, he hadn’t thought it was in the cards, but he’s too selfish to say no even if he shouldn’t do it, it’s too much, no one should want to kiss _him_ in the first place, no mouth that has uttered confessions and forgiving and last rites and words of comfort and love should ever touch lips that have given for years orders and instructions that ruined lives and corrupted people less worthy than the man on top of him, but it’s a slow kiss, considerate, entirely not matching up with the faster and faster thrusts hitting the right target just inside him, and he’s moaning now, without being able to stop himself.

“I still can’t know how to call you?” Federigo asks, but it sounds like he’s not expecting an answer.

“You know that name,” he replies in disgust even as his face contorts in pleasure.

“But you don’t like it, do you?”

“Not anymore.” Not since people became afraid to utter it and he had no idea of how much he’d come to loathe it.

“Then you must have thought — of another.”

“No one ever used my first,” he admits, and he had wondered, _should I go back to it_ , somehow no one ever remembered it, and he did like it better than his own —

“The papers don’t, either.” Another thrust, another burst of pleasure going along with that painful burn. “Will you tell me what it is?”

Federigo’s hand strokes his side gently, his mouth touching his lips again, and again, and fuck but he could drown in how sweet it feels and how forgiving and how the sensation surrounding him feels much, much greater than _he_ is, maybe like a force that he never thought could exist until recently —

No one’s called him _Francesco_ since he was old enough to read, but it slips from his mouth now, barely audible, just as Federigo slams inside him again and _again_ —

“Let me tell you,” he pants, and fuck, they’re both close, he can feel it, he can feel it —, “if you want to start your new life with the name of one of His most beloved servants — who also had so much of that love to share, none of us could even _compare_ — you’re not starting wrong.”

And — that’s it, that’s _it_ , he can’t handle it anymore, he’s over the edge and he’s coming harder than he’s ever had in his life as those rough, warm hands cup his face and white light fills his eyes and he feels like he’s beside himself, like he’s basking in that force that’s so much higher and more loving and more _forgiving_ ——

 

 

 

 

 

—— He wakes up under drenched sheets as the alarm rings.

_Oh_.

He’s rock-hard under the soft, sweat-soaked linen, and his nightwear is damp as well, and it’s with uttermost shame that he reaches down and jerks himself off, thinking of Federigo’s blue, forgiving, warm eyes, and _it was all a dream, wasn’t it,_ but of course it was.

It’s not as if it could have _ever_ happened in real life, not when they haven’t seen each other in months and the priest is supposed to come here this morning, a hour from now, and he’s dreamed that —

He’s dreamed _that_ —

Well.

It’s not like he ever was the kind of man who lies to himself all along. He closes his eyes, breathing hard, thinking of how good that dream had felt, how warm and bright everything was in the end, the world bathed in goodness that he never thought a man such as him could feel, and a moment later he’s spilling all over his hand, and he doesn’t even have it in him to be disgusted at himself.

It’s not as if he isn’t in the first place for that dreadful, dirty fantasy that he wishes he could forget but also knows he will not.

He takes a deep breath, stands up, goes under the shower, wondering if _that_ is also something that might bring him farther from that goodness he craves, or if since it only was in his head —

It’s not only in his head, he fears, but he tries to not think about it as he lets the hot water wash away the proof of what went down tonight and as he dresses, and if he picks the same clothes he had been wearing in that dream, he tries to not pay too much attention to it. He had readied them the evening before, and he doesn’t know if he wants to find others now. He dresses, glances at himself in the mirror, seeing a man also nearing the sixth decade of his life, with hair still not light gray but inevitably headed there, scars under his clothes and a list of crimes to atone for that would frighten anyone, should they try to pay amends for each of it.

He goes downstairs — he could keep his two-story house, for now, at least until the trial. All the others were confiscated, of course, but he chose this one because it wasn’t too large or small, it was still welcoming and comfortable, and he’s just in time to open the door for the policeman who brings him the breakfast he had delivered from a nearby sweets shop.

He brings it to his living room, arranging it on the trays he had readied yesterday, then he proceeds to brew both coffee and tea, in the same porcelains and silverware he had used in that dream. His heart isn’t threatening to beat so hard it’ll pierce through his chest anymore.

The doorbell rings at eight thirty sharp.

He goes to open it and there _he_ is — Father Federigo, wearing the usual frock and bringing his usual Bible, with those bright blue eyes and strong face and hands.

“Father,” he says, his voice trembling slightly. “Thank you for coming.”

“My friend,” he answers, and wait, _how did he call him_ —, “I should be thankful for eating breakfast properly for once.”

“Then — then please come in,” he says, moving forward, opening the door wider and smiling back at the priest, who might look tired and like he hasn’t slept much, but he _does_ seem glad to be here.

Well.

He’s never going to share that one dream, or at least not now —

But he’s very, very glad he’s here, too.

 

 

End


End file.
